The wild goats were on or near a steep rocky outcrop, and a most impressive almost pure white nanny was sitting on top in a commanding position. It was as if she was surveying the scene of a patchwork of low juniper bushes interspersed with the dominant colour of pinkish-purple flowers of heather. Below was the broadening course of the river Findhorn, which looked almost in a hurry to reach the coast way to the east. On the rock face itself was another nanny, with that black, silvery, shaggy coat I always find difficult to describe. She was on her hind legs reaching up into a stunted birch tree, perhaps after the tastier ends of the twigs, and she looked incongruous as she reached upwards. There were six more goats: three were nannies and two others looked as though they were kids born earlier this year. The last goat was a young billy, judging by the length of its horns, and it was also white all over.

The sight of these wild goats served as a reminder that, for me, they are still an important and evocative part of the wildness of the Highland scene. The often misdescribed wilderness is no longer there, having been modified too much by us humans, but the wildness remains over large tracts of the landscape.

Meanwhile, all the goats had sat down and looked contented. But where were the adult billies? The nannies often stay in one area for much of the year and, indeed, I saw them at the place I usually look for them on the steep hillsides. In contrast, the billies range far and wide but, come October and November, they will find the nannies for the breeding season. The peaceful scene will be transformed, with the billies fighting, rising up and butting each other with their long and powerful-looking horns.